LS: Waiting Again

Each year Advent becomes a little more meaningful for me because each year I exist on God’s earth I realize more and more how little I know, how small I am. Time was when I had all the answers; I knew the end from the beginning; I had achieved a lock-down on the mind of the Almighty.

That clock stopped several years ago, leaving me in a perpetual state of waiting to see how the hand of God will move and wondering what that will look like.

In the days before Christ was born in Bethlehem, many of the Jews thought they had the coming of the Messiah figured out. The time was ripe, the oppression of Rome squeezed them like bands of iron — if Israel needed a leader that would usher in the reign of God, now was the perfect time. He needed to be a strong, take-charge man capable of overthrowing evil rulers and oppressive regimes.

Can you imagine if that culture was anything like today? There’d be timelines on overhead projectors, books published, seminars given and the good people of the day, wanting to know the workings of God, would show up, eager to figure it all lest they miss it. I guess we’re not that different, are we?

But God hides himself purposefully, peering around corners and disappearing, ringing and running, giving us enough glimpses of his purposes to feed our faith. But sometimes faith doesn’t seem to be enough, the waiting is agony and we must know the end from the beginning — in essence, we must become like God.We want to write the story of God ourselves, don’t we? We want to have the outline finished, the plotlines converging at the end; we want a neatly wrapped up ending. Fortunately, however, we’re not writing the story, and if the way God worked in the past is any indication, His foreshadowing found in scripture will not ruin the surprise ending. I can’t help but feel that tinge of excitement course through me when I wonder how it will really all shake down.

And so I wait for the returning of the Christ, knowing a little more this year that God is the author of this grand story, not me. I am shrouded in the mystery of the story itself, not as the author, or the critic, or the literature teacher, or a reader, but as a character trying to endure until the end.

Maranatha.

Wait with me, won’t you? Take my hand and let us hold our breath together.

Maranatha.

Lisa Samson, www.lisasamson.com